"Oh, Master, you're still awake! Is there anything I can do; some meaningless little task, some belittling, humble duty I can perform? Oww... Oh Master, yes, strike me for being to forward, yes..."

"Just *cough* get away from me, Gaun - *sneeze* - wung. Ugh... uh... achoo!" Shaking his head, Rogan sighs; <Another lovely start to a beautiful day.> Glancing down at the pile of dust in his lap that has just drifted down from his hair, Rogan sighs again. "Why couldn't I just have a cat?"

"Oh yes, Master! Right away! I know the most vicious, unpleasant feline! I will be right back!" The end of Gauntwing's promise fades off as the mephit speeds off through the window with a clatter.

"No! Wait! Oh... great." Standing up, and engaging in the morning dust-removal ritual, Rogan ponders the results of *this* morning's encounter. <I don't even want to know what he's bringing back this time.> His eyes are drawn to the recently (and personally) replaced endtable and wall boards on one side of the room. <Aren't henchmen supposed to be, well, useful and safe?> Sighing once more, Rogan gets off the dust-covered bed, distractedly watching a trail of dust follow him up off the covers. <I guess I shouldn't be too hard on him. He *has* been useful... > Once again, Rogan resolves, as with every morning, not to kill the creature out of exasperation.

Walking over to the washstand (another private expense), he stares for a moment into the mirror. "Well, gods, what do you have in store for me today?" Gazing back stands a coppery-toned human, obviously well-tanned from hours in the sun. Piercing ice blue eyes attract Rogan's attention, as a spinning object in the center of the pupils slowly expands. Transfixed, Rogan watches as the object grows into a spinning, ornately lacquered and gilded wooden plaque. The object slows, stopping finally to reveal a half dozen swords bunched together, hilts up. With an almost audible >pop<, the vision disappears; Rogan sags a bit, then straightens up. "So, the Deck is stacked against me. So be it." Looking down, Rogan begins scrubbing the dust off, in preparation for the 'disguise'. <I guess I can understand some of the women, now. An hour wasted every morning just to look 'normal'...>

Stepping jauntily down the stairs, Rogan feigns an expression of friendliness and greeting. Calling out to the proprieter of The Club, Rogan orders scrambled eggs (any breed), and blood sausage (hold the bloodsauce). The other man shakes his head, glancing at the imported clock over the bar. "You know it's only been three hours since you went upstairs... are you sure you want breakfast? It's only 4 am; we've still got the roast from dinner stewing..." Rogan shakes his head, smiling. "Okay, you're the customer..." sighs the barkeep as he turns to relay the order.

<That's right, berk. Don't forget that key, and you'll stay a good businessman. Of course, to be *great*.... Let's see, Swan should be coming back on shift in about 5 hours, so that means J'kklo is minding the Bazaar shop. I should stop in to complement him... it. Maintain customer loyalty; perhaps a bonus for the increased 'night' sales. TradeGate receipts have been off; I wonder if Estevan and Swider have been strongarming customers...> Rogan glances up at the clock, pondering the effects of importing several dozen, then stands abruptly. As he walks out the door, the proprietor calls out to him. Rogan turns, flipping the man two cage. "Sorry, business calls. Enjoy breakfast, on me. I'll catch lunch at the office." Turning back, Rogan strides into the darkness of the Market Ward.

During the brief walk to the shop, Rogan takes the time to practice a new skill. Pulling out a dagger and two ladys, he concentrates on juggling the items. Aware of the image he presents (something akin to "Please, rob me"), he keeps one eye on the environs and another on the people. Suprisingly, he only drops the items every fifty steps or so. Before reaching the store, he pockets the coins and restores the dagger to its sheath. <Not good enough yet. Lilah wouldn't have dropped them... but better, anyway. I've got time. Pollax the Younger once used his skills as a juggler to cover his operating costs.... *What?* Who is Pollax the Younger?> Rogan stops in the street, concentrating. <Ah... Pollax the Younger, of Pollax's Pole-axes... Net worth: 630000 gold, business flow of 200 axes per year to Waterdeep guards... Mansion on Gorgan Blvd; destroyed in Fire of .... 36? *sigh* Gosh, what useful information. Ah well, I suppose selling to the guards could be an advantage....> Continuing on, Rogan approaches the store and enters.

Behind the counter of Dannerson's Imports stands a seven foot bug. <Not bug; be nice. Thri-kreen. Industrious fellow, truly. Sleeps even less than I do.> "Good morning, Jakklo." Rogan's mouth struggles around the clicks contained in his employee's name, coming up short. Nevertheless, the mantis-like creature bobs its head; it has no problems with Common speech. "Quite well, hive leader. The lava tunnel hats are sold out again, and the specialty leather jackets as well. We bought some new jokes from a clothbright gnome; they are safely stored in the Vault for the next Acorn-trade..." Rogan nods along with the recitation, memorizing the inventory adjustments and customer descriptions. Noting the first two items on the list, however, causes him a brief twinge... < I'll have to pay Chakan and Lilah back now... they weren't supposed to pay full price. 'Lava tunnel'... why can't the bug say 'stovepipe'?>

"Well done, Jik-klo," compliments Rogan, mangling the name again. "I want you to know how much I - um - the *hive* appreciates your work. You certainly make the functioning more ... efficient. In fact, I want you to know your *personal* efforts have made a dramatic impact. In exchange, you are granted the evening off 5 days from now. Indulge yourself; you can pick up your week's pay the night before." Pleased with himself, Rogan is suprised to see J'kklo's eyes whirling in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"Hive master, you say you are pleased with my efforts, but then you say you want my efforts to cease. I am confused." J'kklo falls silent, resting back on the hind two sets of legs.

<Oh blast. Hmm.... Aha!> "Congratulations, Jickolo. You have passed this test. I am pleased with your character and your efforts; you may now report four an additional 4 hours each day. Would you prefer before or after your current shift?" The thri-kreen shifts forward once more at this, and chitters excitedly. Slowing, it speaks once more in Common. "I would stay after current shift. The eyeblind human is friendly, but doesn't sales close enough. Excuse me... I believe the hive could benefit greatly if the one known as Swan were to increase her efforts in certain conversational areas."

"Granted." <You sound like Valas, J'kklo. And you're probably the most industrious employee I have. Now I will have to find you a mate...> Turning, Rogan makes to leave, but is stopped by a strange noise behind him. He turns back to face the tall storekeeper.

"Surely you found something of interest here? You are not leaving without even questioning one on the merchandise?"

Laughing, Rogan leaves the store. <And now like the Friendly Fiend! *chuckle* How did I ever do this without you?> Smiling contentedly, Rogan strolls to the center of the Bazaar, and passes through the portal to TradeGate.

Emerging from the portal, Rogan takes a quick look around. Spotting the normal assortment of demons, devils, angels, cubes, jellies, etc., he breathes a sigh of relief, then chuckles to himself. <I've come a long way, I suppose, to have the sight of angels and devils be a comforting one. No black-auited assassins, so everything else is "okay"... Hmm... I wonder if I should pay a visit to Swider. Would he be pleased to know KillRaven is off the stockholder list? On second thought, that's public record; I can assume he knows it, the fat bastard. I think I'll just nose around for a bit.> With this decision made, Rogan wanders off into the press of beings. The comforting sounds of buying and selling, bargaining with threats and influence, reach his ears along with snipets of conversation. Taking it all in, Rogan makes his way to the Dannerson's Imports storefront.

Posted outside the shop are a pair of barryar. Rogan's eyebrow rises at this sight, noting the space in the crowd around the guards. Nodding politely to the creatures, Rogan steps inside the shop. "Therin! There'd better be a good reason for that expense out there!" His voice lowers as he spots the on-duty manager. The thin, nervous- looking human looks up from the books in front of him; he stands hurriedly, jostling the table. An open inkpot tips over, beginning to empty its contents onto the accounting records spread across the manager's desk. Suddenly, the room is filled with the sound of every door, window, and container slamming shut. The skittish man jump nearly a two feet into the air, while Rogan stands motionless.

"Wha-! What was that?" stammers Therin Honnelsir. Rogan just shakes his head and sighs. While immanently trustworthy, Therin's nervousness has become more and more prevalent during his stint as manager in TradeGate. Rogan walks over to the still shaking young man, and puts his arm around Therin's shoulders.

"It's okay, Therin. I Closed [the capital is clearly heard] the pot you knocked over." Turning Therin gently back towards the desk, Rogan leads his employee to rear of the store. <What is that smell? Ugh!! Stale sweat, paper, ink, the tang of metal, burnt meat, raw ... something. Lovely side effect...> "So, Therin. Perhaps you'd care for a drink while you fill me in?" Rogan fishes in his clothes for his wineflask as the agitated manager climbs back into his seat.

"Well, sir, it's nothing too obvious. As I reported two months ago, our caravans have been -- no thanks, I don't drink alcohol - as I was saying, our caravans have been drawing more than their share of bandit attention. As a precautionary matter, I sent Drangg along with the next two; he didn't come back from the second trip." Therin pauses to drink from a steaming mug on the desk in front of him. "Mmm... We need to import more of this Celestial Tea... Anyway, I myself accompanied the next caravan to the Tree. There I negotiated a new contract with the Barryars."

Rogan nearly chokes on the swig from his flask. Sputtering, he stammers out, "You did what?!? Do you know what I had to go through to get that deal?"

Therin shrinks visibly, but continues on (in a quieter voice). "Well, I, um, thought it best, sir. See, now they provide guards for the caravans." Remembering the success of his idea, Therin sits up straighter, his voice regaining confidence. "We have only lost one more caravan since the deal, and no personnel. The barryar can keep up with the wagons, and scout, and fight amazingly well. We reduced stabling costs, guard costs, and material losses." As Rogan spins the accounts book around for a better view, Therin continues. "Now, I know we have not had any more months like the first--"

Rogan snorts. "Of course not! You personally removed our biggest retainer..."

"But," continues Therin, ignoring the interruption, "if you consider that we now have 'free' guards, and no more losses, we are actually back to revenues similar to the beginning of the endeavor." Pleased with himself, Therin sits back as Rogan peers more closely at the records.

Minutes pass. Finally, Rogan raises his head. <I think Therin needs some of those new lenses... he writes so small! But, the little man is right.> Echoing his thoughts, Rogan turns back to Therin. "You're right, Therin. Please, excuse my outburst. You have done well. Now, what about you? Are you okay handling the shop here? If you would prefer, I *do* have a place for you in Sigil, either at the office or at the store..." Rogan watches Therin's face for any betraying clues; his search is not unrewarded. Fear, hope, and courage (all Emotions Rogan has become more familiar with) cross his employee's face.

"No, sir. I can handle it. As long as you approve, I'd actually like to step up operations here. There're some new ideas floating around the clerks' quarter, not all of which are bad. Of course, it'll take some money..." Smiling, Rogan and Therin spend the next two hours in deep conversation.

Pausing at the door, Rogan turns back to Therin and waves. "Okay, Therin. I'll have the money to you in a week. You get the rest of the preparations made, and we'll try out some of those ideas. Good luck!" Rogan faces the door and pulls it open. There is a soft *pop* as the door pulls free of the frame; Rogan releases the handle and dives to the side, away from the door. Therin watches, startled. The door swings slowly open, revealing the busy street outside.

Rogan cautiously stands up, watching the doorway. Then a thought dawns on him. "Heh!" Putting his drawn blades away, Rogan walks back to the confused young man. "It appears I'll be here a little bit longer. What do you need open today? I think I Locked everything when I Closed it [the capitals are heard once more]. I'll need to open everything for you until the effect goes away." Seeing the confused look still on Therin's face, Rogan just laughs. "Just a divine prank, my friend! You get used to them.... Oh, and, um, just pull the clothes off tonight; I'm afraid the buttons are Locked, too!"

Passing once more through the portal, Rogan returns to Sigil. After stopping at the Club for a snack ("Okay, so I forgot. Just serve the lunch, alright?"), Rogan makes his way to the Fated headquarters. Following the long route to his office, Rogan starts concentrating on the next task. Walking the route has become a habit; Rogan hardly notices his surroundings until he walks directly into a fellow Digger. Startled, Rogan falls back a few steps and begins to reach for weapons. Once the surprise wears off, Rogan extends a hand in greeting.

"Say, Ff'thar, how's that new desk working out for you? You know, ironwood need to be oiled down every month or so...." Rogan lets the sentence drift off as he notices the other's scowl. Letting his hand fall back to his side, he asks "Is there a problem?"

The red-haired (natural, not infernal) Digger simply stands, glaring down at Rogan. Finally, he answers in a deep voice. "Yes. I do not like owing you. Name the price and be done with this!"

Rogan's face shifts from concern to a thoughful smile. "Now, Thar, I *know* you are homesick. After all, that portal only opens every three to five years..." Rogan takes a private glee at his fellow Digger's predicament. "I thought you would appreciate a reminder of home; it was only by purest chance that I happened to get that shipment of lumber through before it closed. Of course, had I known then that you were from there, well, certainly I would have hastened directly to - urk!" Rogan's spiel is cut off by the sudden constriction of his windpipe by his clothes. As he rises nearly a foot into the air, he ponders the wisdom of baiting the 6'7" barbarian.

"Shut. Up. I am not some berk or clueless to be swindled. Your gift was accepted; I know payment is required. What. Do. You. Want." The last sentence is punctuated by a shake as each word is forced out through gritted teeth. It does not end in a question.

"Gak!" is Rogan's intelligent reply. Clawing at his throat, Rogan attempts to break the iron bands of Ff'thar's finger grasp. Feet dangling, Rogan struggles vainly with the other Fated's grip. Finally, Ff'thar releases Rogan's collar, dropping him to the ground. The barbarian stands completely still, waiting, as Rogan gasps on his hands and knees. After a minute, Rogan stands up and dusts himself off.

The tall Fated speaks once again. "I am in your debt; I do not wish to continue this state of affairs. Name something by the end of the day, or you will not deserve restitution." Turning on his heel, Ff'thar walks back the way he had come, leaving Rogan alone in the hall.

<Whew! Remind me not to do you any more favors. Of course, his sense of honor *does* play into my hands...> Concentrating on this new development, Rogan finishes his trek to the office.

Upon reaching the door, Rogan's abused olfactory sense is met and soothed by the scent of fresh cookies. Smiling happily, Rogan enters the office - and stops in his tracks. "Mom" is hobbling about the office with strange flask in one hand. No cookies are in sight; a curious mist is being ejected from the flask, instantly bursting into to flame, and then disappearing. Left behind is the scent of baking cookies wafting from an open oven-hearth. Shoulders slumping, Rogan walks over to his own desk. Passing "Mom"'s on the way, he notices that the 'To-Do' list is still lying where he had placed it a week ago - nothing is marked as completed. <Ah, well. I suppose the shock would have been too much, anyway. At least the office does smell good... she could have taken a liking to swamp moss, I suppose.>

Leaning back in the plush, tiltable chair, Rogan picks up some reports from his desk. Generated by the two other workers on his staff, the documents concern each employee's targetted ressearch area. Loria, an industrious gnome from Oerth, has prepared an exhaustive report of the cultures and backgrounds of several Prime worlds. Leafing through the material, Rogan spends the next couple hours familiarizing himself with the work. <Sivisk is bound to quibble over something... I'd better know the high points, at least. There *has* to be *some* world he wants, the finicky yank! He has discarded over a dozen already.>

Rogan's studying is not interrupted, nor had he expected it to be. Loria is probably asleep, and Tomaz is on assignment; "Mom" seems to be asleep on her desk. Rogan rises, and walks over to her area. Pulling a blanket down from a file cabinet, he drapes the fabric across her inert form, and moves the chair out of the way. <I guess the cot is too soft for her. I wonder how long she's been sleeping *on* the desk...> Sighing, Rogan returns to his own desk. Tomaz's report catches his eye; picking it up, Rogan resumes his seat and begins reading. Almost second nature, his mind cracks the report's code as he reads.

{"I trust this report has reached you in good health. I have sent it on its journey with the returning business scouts; by the time it reaches you, I hope to be on my way back. You will owe quite the finder's fee if my information pans out."

"I have traced the vague rumors discovered in the Hall of Records's Complaint files to a world known as Vergamet. It is a Prime world, one *shift* from the portal in Room 213 at the Salamander's Rest. The key is, believe it or not, any playing card with a "5" on it. In deference to you, I used the five of pentacles..."}

Rogan pauses in his reading to ponder this information. <It would appear Tomaz knows more than I had thought. While open, I had not revealed the true nature of my interest in the Cards. Hmm... well, I suppose his has just gained a substantial raise; I can't exactly let him loose with this information *now*, can I? Too bad his parents were slain by that paladin; I need some kind of hold over this tiefling until his absolute loyalty is assured...> Shaking his head, Rogan returns to his reading.

{"The world has a normal abundance of natural resources; the scouts will give you more detailed information. I doubt, however, that there is anything of enough interest to warrant the expense of *shifting* caravans to the world. Perhaps if a portal could be found... But I digress."

"I concealed my attributes from the natives per standard operations. Passing myself as a mercenary, I frequented the taverns and inns of the area. I was able to determine the approximate area of the rumors' beginning, but I have come across something else of interest as well. While the trickster's trail is only several months old, the magic and the jests have begun to be passed off as a symptom of something much older."

"It seems that the region the rumors originate from bound an uninhabited region known as the Devil's Peaks. Somewhere within the mountains, supposedly, lies the 'source of all evil'. The information I've gained has been sketchy, mere peasant folklore. There doesn't seem to be the normal collateral damage a Tenar'ri would cause, nor the kind of soul-loss contracting of a Ba'atezu. I will look into the topic, however. It would appear the one I am following pursued similar lines of inquiry during times of lucidity. If this 'source' *is* one the items you seek, am I correct in assuming the loss of it to the gnome would be disturbing?"

"When I know more, I will send another report. For now, the business must be reimbursed 256 cage for my expenses here, as well as 500 cage worth of gems for trade. In other respects, I remain yours in service."

-Tomaz}

<Well, well, well. The Five of Wands... If Tomaz acts quickly, he might actually track down that Card. These rumors of evil aren't particularly interesting, but if they should pan out... I certainly hope the gnome doesn't gain another Card before I catch up to it. That would just make things more difficult. Ah, well. Perhaps a personal investigation is warranted. "Oh, Ff'thar..."> Sitting forward once more, Rogan opens a drawer in the desk and retrieves some paper and a stylus...

Leaving the Fated headquarters late that night, Rogan heads for the Void. After a stroll through the Lady's Ward, he stops in front of the establishment, marked outside by a black disk with a white dot in the center. Situated on the edge of the Lady's Ward, the Void caters to the high-paying merchant crowd that doesn't quite want to enter the Lady's Ward proper. Having just won the password for entry the night before, Rogan is eager to try his luck at the new gambling establishment. <Of course, if I ever stayed at one place for more than a night, they'd never let me play... It should be safe to return to that one Chakan took me to in about a week...>

After passing through the doorway, Rogan's eyes and ears are greeted by the happy sounds of many people losing vast sums of money. Glancing around the interior, Rogan realizes the House's primary form of fleecing appears to be roulette. At least, there are at least three times as many spinning-disk-with-field-betting tables as cards or dice. Wandering over to one of the medium-sized tables, Rogan begins to watch the other gamblers. After an hour of watching and sipping a drink, he decides to try his hand at a game called Voidball. It appears to be "standard" roulette with one more space: the Void. When the ball lands in the Void, all bets are lost, plus an equal amount from the non-risked piles in front of the players! On the other hand, all other payouts are increased one step...

True to other evenings, Rogan's luck playing the field holds true. Within an hour, quite a sizable amount of jink lines the table in front of the Fated. There have been a few losses to the Void; nearly physical pain was visible the first time as not only 5 Ladys of bets were lost, but also a matching amount from his own pockets. Over all, however, the evening had proven quite profitable. Noticing other beings' stares, however, Rogan decides it is time to leave. <No sense wearing out my welcome the first night,> he thinks as he pockets the money. <Tomaz's expenses are well covered, plus a tidy amount extra...> As he leaves the establishment, he checks his weapons, just in case. <Can't be too careful... at least five people left before me; someone has to know I'm carrying over 25 Ladys.... Hopefully, the rest of the evening will be dull....>

#There he is.# sends Jengrax. #You, little one. Fetch the human.# The large gargoyle punctuates the mental command with a buffet from one heavy, stone wing. A smaller fiend spreads its own wings as is tumbles off the building, stabilizing itself into a low glide. #Remember, no Hardhead interference. Just *shift* back to this roof. Now GO!# Satisfied the creature is too terrified to do anything but follow commands, the four-armed gargoyle turns back to its other companion.

"Remove ... your... amulet. You... know... I hate... speech...." The sound of Jengrax's voice sends shivers up Nani's considerably hardened spine.

<No wonder, stoney. I think an avalanche is more musical than your vocal talents. But...> A slow smile spreads across the elf's face, her eyes shining in the light of the hooded lantern. "I don't think so, my ... friend. A girl has to keep a few secrets; I've no illusions about my abilities matched against yours. Just wait patiently; the berk was a big winner tonight. If that fool manning the table had done his job correctly, he wouldn't have even Voided once. In any case, the Fated must still be carrying in excess of 40 Ladys." Nani turns her back to the menacing gargoyle, gazing back into the Lady's Ward. Her tightly bound golden hair glows softly in the lantern light, the diamond studs in her ears throwing off a rainbow of sparkles. After a lengthy pause, she turns back to her companion. "I want him to pay for turning me down. So, I will take his money, and you can have his soul. No one refuses Salisnania." Chuckling, she continues mentally, < not even for a stupid clerk position!>

Jengrax simply squats immobile on the roof corner. His slate eyes watch the willowy elf as she walks impatiently about the building's roof; his mind continues to pry at the edges of the amulet's protective covering. His skill at the mental arts is sufficient to experiment without detection, but not quite enough to penetrate. Slowly he weighs the value of the merchant's soul against that of the elf's, especially gaining the amulet with it... <Not tonight, I think, but soon. Our partnership is still profitable; I will have your soul another time. Besides,> Jengrax thinks with a chortle, <Estevan is paying me double for this one... something I'll not be sharing with a softform like you! Now where is that demon? Enough time has passed for a quick flight...>

<Ah! Ah! Quarry, sighted... quarry easy, quarry slow! Hungryhungryhungry, but no eat quarry. Serve quarry to stonebird, then eat. Maybe eat... maybe eat now? No, much hurt, oh! Quarry moves faster! SwoopdiveclutchSHIFT!------- No shift!??!? SHIFT! Oh! Wings tired, tiredtired, falling. Drop quarry. Oh! Building! OWOWOWowowowow! Sigh, lost quarry. Hungry! Hurt. Nap.>

"What the hell was that?" exclaims Rogan, picking himself up from kissing the street. Spitting out some blood, Rogan clears his mouth and turns around. Dust is still settling from the hole torn in the building above him. Something thin and short dangles out of the whole. A tail, maybe? Stooping to pick up the daggers from where the impact had jarred them loose, Rogan makes his way from the alley back into the street. Fingering the new holes in his tunic, he sighs and shakes his head. Moving quickly away from the scene, he reviews the events of the last couple minutes:

Walking down the street, Rogan unobtrusively checks his surroundings constantly. Keeping to well-lighted areas and away from alley openings, he quickly but cautiously makes his way back towards the Club. The sound of wings behind him penetrates his concentration; thinking it only to be Gauntwing tracking him down, Rogan slows a little bit in surrender. <I'd hoped to be asleep before you came back...> Looking over his shoulder, he discovers, not the little mephit, but a black-shaded demon following him. Rogan increases his speed, but remains short of running. The sounds of wingbeats fade, to be replaced by Rogan's own cries as the swooping demon grabs both shoulders with barbed claws. As his feet leave the ground, Rogan snaps both daggers from their spring sheathes into his hands, and stabs upwards. The mithril points skitter off the creature's hide; before Rogan can make a second strike, a deep wrenching in his stomach doubles him over. The awkward airborne movement tears the muscle around the creature's clawpoints even more. One dagger falls from his grasp as the demon flies into an alley, pulling for the roof of the lower building.

Another wrench shakes Rogan's gut, then a brief sensation of flight. A jarring greeting with the pavement is accompanied by the sound of something heavy going crashing into a wall above him. Rolling quickly to the side, Rogan gasps as his torn shoulders protest the sudden effort. The metallic tang of blood fills his mouth from the wounds caused by his own teeth.

Swooping down to land on a sturdy three-story building, Jengrax glares at the hole in the shorter building below him. #WAKE UP NOW!!# Feeble movement stirs in the dark opening across the alley. After a few moments, a small horned head peeks out of the rubble. The black stoney head is covered in dust; one horn appears broken. Finally, the small creature catches sight of the massive form looming over it.

<Oh! Nap too long! Master here, master angry! But hurthurt, no shift! Hungry... Feed me?> The creature looks hopefully up at the four-armed monster.

Carefully controlling his anger, Jengrax interrogates the small winged demon. Finally, he releases his anger through the link, extinguishing the beast's mind as easily as the lantern a few minutes ago. <So, the Fated is an Anchor... or at least Plane Locker. Which means he is a psionic...> With a sound like a cliffside shearing off, the gargoyle releases a full-body laugh. <This will be even more fun than I thought! Well... for now, I suppose the elf's soul will do. Bills to pay, and all that....>

"Where is he? How long can it take to track down one's own minion?" Nani fumes as she paces restlessly. Finally, she gives in to her temper. The air around he shimmers as she swifty incants a spell; leaning forward, she shrinks down into a quadreped, roughly the size of a Prime bobcat. Her amulet now dangles from an ornate collar around the grey and green spotted fur. [Cutters in the know might recognize the shape of an elfin cat...] With a running jump, she spans the distance to the next building. Leaping from roof to roof, Nani heads off into the night, following the direction taken by the gargoyle.

Jengrax launches himself into the air, crumbling a small section of the roofline. His slate grey eyes peer into the night, watching ahead for his "companion's" distinctive form on a rooftop. Meanwhile, his mind wanders, perusing the information taken from the tiny fiend. <Hmm... I wonder if Estevan knows of the Fated's powers. The price on his soul would certainly be higher... Most likely, the conniving doodletusk hoped I wouldn't notice. *sigh* I suppose that's fair; now that I DO know, I'm going to rake him over the coals for a ... What's this??> Jengrax's thoughts are interrupted by the sight of an empty rooftop. Not entirely unsuprising, but there was supposed to be a "partner" waiting there. Destroying another section of roofline, the stone monster lands heavily, mind already questing outward for signs of the elf. <She had better still be in the area... I will NOT go uncompensated this night...>

Claws extended, rear legs scrabbling at the wall, Nani tries desperately to climb over the building's edge. Her leap had fallen short, and now a longer fall was foremost on her mind. <Come on come on come on! I know I can do... this... yes!> as a final effort send her over the edge. Sprawling in the dust, the tranformed elf pants from the recent strain. As she lies, partially concealed by a chimney, a large form glides overhead. The distinctive shale-cracking sound of the gargoyle's wingbeats make her instinctively freeze, becoming a motionless part of the shadows. The great stone beast moves on, obviously searching for something as its head swings back and forth across its flight path. The amulet around her neck grows cool as it repels questing probes of psionic energy.

After a few minutes, the danger has passed. Nani rights herself, then proceeds to lick her fur clean. Her body functioning on instinct, her mind is free to ponder the recent developments. <Yech! The more time I spend in this form, the more habits I seem to pick up. I like being clean, but really! With my own tongue? *sigh* I wonder what Jengrax was looking for. Oh, right, he's looking for the demon... no, he should have passed this direction already. Maybe he was looking for me. After all, I'm not exactly where we split up. But we arranged to meet later... why would he be looking for me?> Caught by this thought, Nina's mind runs around in circles until he body finishes its task. Faced with few options, she decides to proceed to the meeting site with Jengrax anyway. She stands up on all fours, and silently pads out of the cover of the chimney's shadow. Bunching her muscles, she accelerates to a run, preparing to leap to the next (and closer) building.

*SLAM!!* Nina falls backwards from the large stone wall that suddenly appeared at the roof's edge. Dazed, Nina begins to shake her head to clear it; shooting pains behind her eyes stop that action quickly. A harsh grating sound pierces the fog in her head, "So... partner... you... were... wrong..... The... Fated... is... not ... easy...... not ... like ... you!" Jengrax's crashing laugh assaults her ears as she tries to regain her feet.

"Payment... shall... be made!" Jengrax reaches forward with all four arms, each grabbing one of Nina's legs. Jengrax brings the helpless elf-cat to him, opening his mouth to bite the amulet (and her head!) free of the body. Nina lets out a piercing caterwaul as the gargoyle pulls her legs tight, tearing the muscles in each hip...

Mouth open, mind concentrating on the soul and amulet removal, Jengrax briefly loses track of his surroundings. Bringing the helpless elf closer to her doom, he savors the terror that escapes even the shielding effects of her amulet. Opening his mouth wider, he prepares to bite down on the tasty morsel... and convulsively releases his prey as he is overcome by painful coughing spasms. His mouth is coated with some foul layer, his sensitive (albeit stone) throat burning from the caustic substance that suddenly covers it. Unbalanced by his spasms, the great gargoyle loses his grip on the rooftop; tumbling and coughing, he falls into the alley below, landing with a stunning crash the resonates through the alley. Except for his wings, which flutter feebly, Jengrax lies motionless on the pavement below.

"Oh, sorry, great stone thing. But kitty, kitty is for my Master. Nice kitty, good kitty. And such a wonderful dusty grey color. Oh, Master will certainly be pleased with me... he might only hit me once or twice! Come, kitty, come. Your pointless existence has been extended by the Master. I'm sure you'll loathe and love every painful minute of it, just as I do..." Chattering happily(?) to himself and the cat, Gauntwing summons up a few pointless relatives, spicing up their dreary lives with the futile task of carrying a mostly-dead feline to an unappreciative Master's home, where he probably won't be, so it doesn't really matter, after all, does it?

For her part, Nina really doesn't notice what's happening. The pain in her head has faded to a dull throb, but one that completely overshadows and punctuates every thought. Added to that is the ripping pain in her joints that whites out her consciousness with every jarring movement of her clumsy flight. She has no idea how much time has passed when she awakes to find herself indecently sprawled on a dusty bedcover. Her first (painful) instinct is to pull her limbs underneath her. Thankfully, she completes the maneuver before the pain breaks through the fog in her head; afterwards, she passes out again.

Returning home, Rogan throws open the door to his room. Hardly looking around, he makes his way directly to the safe. Three potions later, he finally relaxes, leaning back against the bed as he sits on the floor. Resting his head back, he closes his eyes. Reflexively, his hand reaches up to brush the whatever out of his face. The third time, he actually opens his eyes to see what is bothering him. When his vision is greeted by a long furry object, he spooks, jumping up and away from the bed. As he spins around, his daggers drop into his hands.

"Oh, Master, you're home! Oh, you look so silly, with your shiny daggers out to hurt the poor, dying kitty. That's so pointless; it'll be dead soon ayway. Just look, it's already been bleeding on your nice silk sheets...."